


and in the end, it's always been you and me

by clayisforgirls



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 22:33:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7011070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clayisforgirls/pseuds/clayisforgirls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perhaps that is why when you fell in love, you pretended it was with a game. With a racquet in your hand you finally had something you wanted, and that was the kid who made you smile brighter than anyone in Scotland had ever managed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and in the end, it's always been you and me

You have never embraced Valentine’s Day the world would want you to. To you it is nothing more than a corporate trick, half the world buying into the _one day to show your love_ shit. Maybe because your childhood was never filled with romance between your parents; instead you remember too-loud arguments which carried on into the night, curled under your duvet until the yelling stopped. Though you grew older you never gave a girl a card or received one from a mystery admirer; you have always been odd looking, and the long hours of tennis and football were never good for meeting girls.

Perhaps that is why when you fell in love, you pretended it was with a game. With a racquet in your hand you finally had something you wanted, and that was the kid who made you smile brighter than anyone in Scotland had ever managed. His matching one was like sunshine, made you feel warm even in cold, empty tennis centres across Europe, and though you told your mother you picked tennis because you fell in love with it, the reason has always been a lie.

The grin is the same now, cheeky and brilliant, but the last time you saw him smile it wasn’t as wide as it should have been. You haven’t spoken since that night in Australia, three messages which had been followed with a stony silence. _Dont fucking apologise just fucking enjoy yourself_ you’d told him, and days later you wish you hadn’t been so harsh. He’d left you alone after that, because sometimes he knows you better than you know yourself. Though you missed his soft hand and kind words when you landed in London, you'd prickled at every mention of his name. He’d known you would need time to heal.

While Kim was learning your heart, Novak had been learning your mind, and when you are not playing to win your head has always ruled your emotions. You are pragmatic and cautious, only willing to let those closest to you see who you truly are. Sometimes you are too like your mother, convinced you are happier alone than with the person you are meant to love.

Some days Kim does not understand, she looks at you as though you are a stranger. With Novak it has never been like that, even though he is not like you. He is ruled by his heart; impulsive and romantic, every emotion broadcast for the world to see. It is why he embraces Valentine’s Day in ways that you do not, Novak loves to show off for an audience. Even more when the audience is just you.

It is why you sit on your sofa, a box with a return address in Monte Carlo on the table in front of you. The box is too small for flowers and the wrong shape for wine though from Novak, you expected neither. He does not fit a mould, happy to be his own person and is loved for it. You have never felt that free, cautious of the cameras watching your every move while you are in a city which has only given you heartbreak.

Carefully you peel the tape from cardboard, half expecting snakes to jump out at you as a joke but inside there is a white envelope, your name printed carefully on the front. The card is inoffensive, a vase of flowers, a standard Valentine’s Day card for the one you love. You open it to find a poem, one you remember from the school playground when you were a child, except this has more than a hint of Novak humour in it.

_roses are red_  
violets are blue  
you might be grumpy scot sometimes who can kick ass at ps3 into next week and who steals bed covers and claims he doesn’t  
but i still love you :)  
nole xx 

And then, almost as an afterthought: _btw I am going to kick your ass at wii next time we play_

You cannot help but laugh; you are the one who taught him the rhyme when you were both younger. It was a taunt among juniors, made insulting in ways you have forgotten, but you remember his soft smile as you’d told him the real words, his thank you said with a stronger accent than the one he has now.

When you look back at the front of the card, you realise the flowers are violets, and you smile. He is thoughtful in ways that no one but you will ever know.

The box is filled with torn paper and you scoop it out, littering the table with pieces of old newspaper. You find a CD case hiding at the bottom, the front of it blank. Inside you expect a track list; instead you find a disc labelled only _VALENTINE’S DAY_. There is no hint to what might be on there.

Novak’s handwriting greets him on the lining; another note but this time it is not a poem. It reads: _I ask my mother for photos from juniors, she give me this instead. We have known each other long time Andy. I no want to wait any longer._

And it is too soon, but in that moment you miss him too. It is strange, him being at the touch of a button but not calling, or texting, or just knowing he is there if you need him. This distance has felt further than London to Monte Carlo, like Novak is on the other side of the world and the mobile phone has yet to be invented. It is the longest you have gone without speaking to him since he kissed you so many months ago, since you felt his hands touch your body in all the right ways.

You slide the disc into your laptop; the screen shows an image of a place you recognise, the streets distinctively French, surrounding mountains as beautiful as you remember them. The place is Tarbes. Your heart stops as you see a much younger Novak sitting on the edge of the fountain, the same grin you fell in love with, and it hits you what this video is of. The first time you met. There are voices in the background, talking in what you guess is Serbian but you pay no attention to it as the movie flicks from the surrounding mountains to inside the tennis stadium, the camera still following Novak like he’s a magnet. For cameras, he always has been and still is, and always will be, his inner light shining brighter when there are people watching.

And then you see yourself, standing across the net from Novak. Your heart clenches, because it is still too soon even though the outcome of this match was so very different from the one you played in Australia. You wish your final had turned out like this, but it was not meant to be. You will grow from this and so will he; your journey will be more painful and longer than his, but you know that when you let him, he will be there to guide you.

Though you know you shouldn’t, you watch the rest of the video. The match is shorter than you remember, and you laugh when Novak gets pissed off at a line call. He is the same as he is now, rolling his eyes and talking to himself, and though he loses he still greets you at the net with a smile, with a word the camera doesn’t pick up and one you don’t remember.

You watch yourself smile back, and he says something that makes you laugh; you realise it is then that it started. That Novak started learning who you were and who you are when you were eleven, and he has never stopped learning and changing. You have drifted in and out of each other’s lives for years but he has always been there when you’ve needed him; when he has needed you, you cannot always say the same.

The silence between you is your fault; he will not call, he knows you too well for that. But by now you have started to heal, even if it is only a little. Maybe you do not want to see him but it cannot hurt to talk.

For the first time in your life, you think that Valentine’s Day might be good for something; it has been two weeks since you have thought about calling him, two weeks you have tried not to think about him except his name in everything you do.

You pick up your phone and dial a number you know by heart, and you wait for him to answer.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written maybe four years ago? So handwavey AU with no kids, obviously.


End file.
